Driving Sober
by RebelzHeart
Summary: In which the Avengers are teenagers and yet, fate still brings them together on a road trip. Road Trip AU, Teenage AU
1. Chapter 1

Here is what happens: Tony is sixteen and stupid and his parents are dead because Howard apparently didn't understand the need to drive sober.

Here is what happens: Tony is silent because he does not know what to say ( _do not speak ill of the dead_ ) his mother always reminded him, and so he keeps his mouth shut.

Here is what happens: He is silent while Obie arranges the funeral, he is silent when Aunt Peggy looks around and says _a big home like this can be lonely_ and offers for him to live at hers, and he is silent all the way up until Obie asks how he would like to proceed.

"You can handle it," Tony says brusquely, uncaring and ignoring that he holds 60% of the Stark shares. (Ignoring that he is the heir, that he is expected to take charge, as though he, sixteen and stupid, would know what to do next.) "You have more experience anyway."

Obie smiles, relieved, perhaps, that the sixteen year old fuck up isn't going to throw a temper tantrum to do something as stupid as try to take over the company in his father's death.

"And you?" Obie asks, "What will you do?"

Tony shrugs.

"Fuck is if I know," he says crudely. Tony pulls off his stupid black suit and his pasty gray tie and throws them onto his couch, ignoring Obie's exasperated sigh of _Tony_ , so many emotions drenched in that one word and likely, none of them pleasant for Tony to think about. "I need, I need," his mind races, "I need time off." Tony's hands shake and he is grateful that the stupid tie is already off his neck. "I'll come back later, but right now..."

"I understand," Obie says quickly. He puts a hand on Tony's shoulder, "Your funds...?"

"Just," Tony exhales roughly, "Just let them be. I'll put them in an RRSP or something..."

It is not the answer that Obie wants to hear, Tony knows.

Obie wants more for Tony, wants Tony to be more.

Obie wants Tony to invest, to get stocks or mutual funds, something profitable to use with his long time horizon.

But Tony doesn't want to think about stocks or money (he doesn't want to think of his own dwindling time horizon or his own mortality, not after hacking the morgue database and seeing the report of the bodies— not his parents, not anymore, just cold corpses cooling in a too-expensive coffin six feet under).

"Thank you," he says to Obie instead of using all those words (empty, meaningless words that sum up to Tony understanding his own stupidity but being too damn pig headed to spare a thought to his future). He's been saying thank you a lot, lately.

To people at the funeral.

People at his father's (his?) company.

Those vultures at the bank.

Two pretty, empty little words that make everyone look at Tony as though it were him that died instead of his parents.

Tony does not cry. (Maybe he wants to. He does not know. Maybe it will make him feel better. He doesn't do it, either way.) Instead, he takes a sleek red sports car from the garage and makes his way to the nearest Denny's.

* * *

People are staring.

And okay, yeah, fine.

 _Steve_ is staring.

(And, well, that's okay, right? It still counts. Steve is a people, too. A weird, super-serumed, souped up, out of time person, but still. A person. Part of a group of persons. AKA people.)

And yeah, fine, he's staring, but it's hard not to. He may not know much (try anything) about the 21st century, but Steve is pretty sure that most people don't go to (overpriced) 24-hour diners (grease spots) in button down shirts and shiny black dress shoes.

And yet.

The man in the second corner booth doesn't seem to mind, silk white shirt rumpled and back pressed against the red faux-leather of the peeling booth's skin.

Sleek black sunglasses sit over his eyes, the red on his nose indicating that he's either been crying or drunk (maybe both, who's Steve to judge?) as he digs into his $2.99 french fries ( _so_ expensive, Steve thinks despairing).

The man is subdued but he looks unused to it, as though there is a joke sitting on his tongue so long as there was someone who wanted to hear it.

Steve both likes that look (it reminds him of Bucky, when Steve was coughing and Bucky was torn between _omigod my best friend is dying_ and _Stevie, I got the greatest pun about poverty, wanna hear?_ ) and dislikes it (he always wanted Bucky to just tell him the joke, forget that he was on death's doorstep).

Half of Steve wants to walk over, ask for a conversation, maybe even make a new friend, but people nowadays regard that kind of behavior with suspicion (maybe they always have, but back in the Depression, people pitied Steve... sickly, poor little Steve... enough that even if he had considered stealing something, they would just let it be).

So he lets it be.

Leaves the guy alone, enjoys his burger (he's always amazed by how much food he can eat nowadays, how much is _available_ , and how good it tastes) and is just about finishing up when five men approach the rich man.

Steve can already tell that this won't bode well, but he waits.

"Tony Stark?" One man sneers, trying to act tough in his faded shirt and ripped up jeans (Steve is told that's fashion these days but he's never had much sense for these sorts of things, and besides that, he can't quite understand why they wouldn't want to wear nice clothing).

The rich man (Tony Stark? _Stark,_ Steve thinks, trying and failing to ignore the pit in his stomach, _is a common enough name..._ ) takes off his sunglasses and Steve starts when he realizes it's not a man but a teenager ( _around Steve's age, Steve who is only 18..._ ).

"Who wants to know?" Stark (no, that hurts to much, it's impolite, but Steve needs to think _Tony_ and push away the image of a grinning Howard) asks lightly, baring his teeth in a grin at the five men ( _how many rich men have the name Stark?_ ) and lounging back, an elbow resting on the booth's faded red seat. "If you're here for a booty call, I've gotta apologize, you're not pretty enough for..."

He's cut off by one of the men dragging him from the booth and throwing him against the floor.

"We'll be short," One of the men says, smiling lightly, _mockingly_ , "Ten thousand in cash is all that we want. Barely a dent in the Stark million, hm?"

"Sorry, sweets," Tony drawls. He picks up his plate and smashes it against the head of the nearest goon, eyes narrowed as he says, "Like I said, I'd rather we just not date. I'm looking to stay single, not a lot of commitment, y'know?"

"That's fine," A member in a bright yellow hoodie throws a punch, "Just a little cash, no more than you give those little whores in the tabloids..."

Tony's face turns to stone and he grabs the punch, flipping the man over expertly (martial arts training, perhaps? Steve ponders), "hate to break it to you, darling, but..."

At that moment, two of the men smash into him and he goes down hard, a surprised grunt yanked out of him when a piece of the broken plate cuts a sharp line into his temple.

Steve has had enough of this.

"Hate to cut in, boys," his voice is steel, none of Tony's light teasing play, "But I'd like to join in the fun."

It's barely even a fight.

He takes them down, the remaining three in quick succession, barking _someone call the cops and an ambulance_ as the bleeding Tony watches him with a furrowed brow.

When he's done fighting, Tony smiles nervously at him, "Hey, handsome," Tony's fingers clutch a large piece of the broken plate, ready to swing it at a moment's notice, "Sorry, can't pay you much for the save, but..."

"I don't care," Steve cuts in sharply, voice short. He examines the wound on Tony's temple and frowns, "How do you feel? Dizzy? I need you to stay awake, okay?"

Tony blinks. He looks startled, but his answer comes out a bit subdued, "I'm fine."

"Good," Steve sits back, relieved. His head spins from the adrenaline rush, "Wait for the paramedics, okay?"

Tony looks like he wants to protest, but some blood makes it's way to his brow and drips on his eyelashes.

"Yeah, okay," he laughs a tad hysterically, as though only finally realizing the severity of the situation.

"Okay," Steve whispers.

They sit in relative silence, Tony's hands still on the plate and Steve too tired to care.

When the paramedics arrive, Tony drops some car keys in Steve's hand.

"A reward," he says.

"I can't drive," Steve turns red. He spent his years on the battlefield and when he could learn, it was too late. He had become a soldier, doomed to die on the field.

Tony laughs, "Then sell it. I don't care."

Steve frowns, "How about I accompany you to the hospital to make sure you're okay instead?"

Tony blinks at Steve, a suspicious frown on his lips as he cautiously murmurs, "Okay, sure," and plays with a loose thread on his fancy (ruined) button down shirt. The paramedics guide him to the ambulance and he frowns at Steve, as though Steve is a puzzle that he cannot figure out, "Thanks."

Even that sounds like he's suspicious of Steve.

It's alright, though. Steve doesn't mind. He's seen battles, and he understands.

* * *

Tony comes out of the hospital room with a long, jagged scar neatly stitched up on the side of his face but otherwise he looks none the worse for wear.

"Oh, it's absolutely _magical_ ," he says lightly when Steve asks after his well being, "I feel absolutely nothing."

"Oh, that's not good," Steve worries, fiddling with his cup of water that a kind nurse gave him a few hours into his waiting, "If you can't feel anything, your nerves could be damaged or..."

"No pain, I mean," Tony rolls his eyes, "My nerves are fine."

"Oh," Steve looks down, face red, "Right. Sorry."

Tony offers him a pitying glance, "It's fine," he mumbles," You were concerned." Tony says it like it's a lie, though, and resigned, he continues, "So, let's talk reward. Obviously you've gotten fame by saving me, but cash-wise I was thinking a sum of..."

" _No_!" Steve yelps.

The sound surprises even him and he turns steadily more embarrassed.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have cut in. I just- I don't need money. I have more-" _way_ more, SHIELD offers an amazing income so long as Steve punches the people that they direct him at, "-than enough."

"Oh," Tony looks put out, "Then you want..."

"Nothing!" Steve waves his hands in the air. Then, cheeks turning a bit red, "Well, um. I'm heading to Orlando-" or, rather, a HYDRA base stationed there. SHIELD offered a ride but Steve had politely declined, not wanting to spend the rest of his life strapped in a helicarrier, occasionally let out to punch people like a dog "-so if you have a map that I could borrow? Or, um," he falters at Tony's darkened expression, "If that's too much to ask, just general directions are..."

Maybe he's overstepping his boundaries again. It's hard to tell what's okay and what's not okay, these days.

Tony, though, surprises him by laughing. "A _map_ , he says," Tony chortles, shaking his head, "Are you overstepping- no, man. Heck, forget a map, I could give you a _ride_."

"Oh, well," Steve blinks, "You're not planning to kill me, are you?"

" _Dude,"_ Tony offers Steve a flat stare, "You saved my life. It'd be a bit ungrateful if I decided to put a bullet through your skull, don't you think?"

"Right," The 21st century is confusing. You can't talk to someone on a bus but you can ride in a car with a random stranger? Steve is lost, "That would be lovely. The ride, I mean. Not the bullet."

 _Ugh_.

Steve had been a lot more eloquent when all he had to say was a flowery version of _let's go beat up some Nazis_.

"Thank you."

"Yeah, well," Tony shrugs. Smiles a bit at Steve, "It's the least that I could do."

It isn't.

Not by a long shot.

But Steve can appreciate the kindness that Tony is offering without pointing that out and making things awkward.

"Alright, then," Tony yawns, a body wide motion that makes his arms stretch up and his shirt lifts with his heaving chest, "Let's go on a road trip."


	2. Chapter 2

Tony and Steve are quick to agree that Tony's bright red, sleek sports car, though beautiful and fantastic is nowhere _near_ acceptable for a road trip, where one of them is probably going to take naps.

As such, Tony is quick to get a battered, used bus and hangs up two fuzzy black and white dice in front of the rear view mirror, proudly citing it as giving the van a "real road trip type of feel".

Steve just laughs at him. "It's not about the fuzzy dice in the rear view mirror, Tony," he chides, but he does not argue. The dice are pretty cute, after all, and Steve has always liked that kind of thing.

The bus is large and metallic, when Steve bangs the side, it sort of keels to the side before righting itself.

"It feels as though it's a bit below your standards," Steve tells Tony, smiling a bit.

"It has _personality_ ," Tony insists, and Steve thinks he understands what kind of person Tony is in that little insistence, despite Tony's neat dress clothes and the shiny shoes on his feet.

"Okay, okay," Steve bumps his shoulder against Tony's, "Am I driving first or you?"

Tony blinks at Steve, looking a bit bewildered, " _You_ want to drive?"

"Yes, of course," Steve fidgets awkwardly, "Is that not, uh, a polite thing to do?" Gosh, this would be really awkward if it turned out that driving a stranger's car was a taboo or something like that.

"No, I mean, it's not, it's just..." Tony raises an eyebrow, "I thought you couldn't drive?"

"Oh," Steve turns red, "That's true. I can't. I'm sorry, I just..." he sighs, "I want to help somehow. It feels wrong, making you do all the driving."

"It's okay," Tony laughs and pats him on the shoulder, "That's a very sweet thought, though. Thank you."

Steve smiles a bit, though he still feels awkward.

Tony yawns, an action that canvases his entire body, fingertips stretching up and head tipping back. When he resumes his normal straight backed position, there is a wide grin on his lips and a tilt to his head. "How old are you, Steve?" Tony runs his fingers along the outside of the bus. It's different from buses that college students ride, Steve reflects, a bit smoother in the front though retaining the rectangle shape. It's painted neat, nearly blinding white, and the interior is neat, basically empty save for the seats inside.

Steve hums when they climb into the bus. "Eighteen," it isn't a crime to admit this to Tony, not the way that it was when he tried to sign up for the army and was told _you're too young_ (not the way it was when he lies about his age and tells them that he's _nineteen, really, i just look young_ though he is fifteen at the time) or the way that it was when he tells it to SHIELD ( _a deafening silence, a soft hand telling him_ you're too young _even though Steve has seen men ripped apart by bombs, limbs flying as he watches from another ditch and wonders if he's next_ ).

It's not a crime to be eighteen.

(Only if you're Steve Rogers, Captain America, a hero from WWII.)

Tony nods, fingers pressing against his lips to bite back a yawn.

"Sixteen."

Even younger than Steve, then. It picks at his curiosity, and unable to help himself, he asks, "Why aren't you with an adult?"

Tony's jaw locks, and Steve backtracks.

"Not that I really have any right to talk. I mean," he laughs a bit, "I'm only eighteen."

Tony squints at him, "You don't know who I am, do you?" He laughs, and it sounds refreshed, like he's found something lovely that he wants to hold close to his chest.

"You're the man who's offering me a ride halfway across the country and the person who I just saved from a dangerous gang in a burger joint," Steve shrugs, a shoulder lifting to touch the bottom of his ears, "Do I need to know anything else?"

"Just that I'm sponsoring this trip," Tony grins, wild and sweet as a raspberry. "What about you, Steve? Anything that I should know about you?"

Steve shifts a bit, considering. Is there anything that Tony needs to know? Not particularly, he reflects. "Just that if you try to kill me, I can probably take you in close distance."

"Good to know," Tony bounces around the bus, examining the seats with unadulterated glee, "I'll be sure to kill you with a gun instead of an axe."

"I'd rather not get killed at all," Steve huffs, and, almost as though he has no way to hold it back, a laugh bubbles it's way from Tony's lips.

He tries to stifle it, clamping a hand over his mouth, but it sputters through like an oil leak in the fuel tank, and Tony bends over, his shoulders shaking and body moving, and eventually he gives him, collapsing into a seat and bursting into flow blown laughter. It's like a volcano erupting, an explosion of sound, and Steve is absolutely in love with it.

His laughter is infectious, it seems, because Steve is quick to join, collapsing and laughing and sides aching, and when they're both done, drained from it, wiping tears from their eyes and clutching their sides, Steve says, accusingly, "I have a cramp because of you."

"Sorry," Tony chokes out, though he doesn't sound very sorry.

They smile at each other, and Steve thinks that maybe this will work out quite nicely.

* * *

"What do you think of getting rugs?" Tony asks Steve over lunch. They've come to a pit stop at some restaurant by the side of the road, a nice place with bubble tea and noodles with all kinds of vegetables on it. Steve has never had anything quite like it, and it pleases him very much.

"Rugs?" Steve echoes, raising an eyebrow and smiling a bit. "Whatever for?"

"For the bus," Tony looks down, a little self consciously, as though he is still running it through his head whether or not saying that had been a good idea and had just blurted it out before thinking it through. "To, uh, make it homier or something."

"Oh, uh," Steve blinks, and smiles a bit at the mental image he gets. Something colorful and a bit messy, maybe older and, as Tony likes to say, 'well loved'. It'll make the bus look like the inside of a flea market, and for some reason, the thought endears him to the idea. "That sounds pretty nice, actually. But it's your vehicle, you know. You don't have to ask me."

"Well, sure, but," Tony plays with his noodles idly, the chopsticks in his hand twirling over his fingers and the joint of his thumb without spilling a drop. Steve watches with fascination, "You're also going to be on the bus for a while, yeah? It'd be pretty rude if I made the bus look ugly or something and you got irritated by it."

Steve blinks.

He smiles a bit.

"That's very thoughtful," he says.

Tony shrugs, "Not really," he answers, and they drop the topic. "So, why are you heading Orlando, anyway?"

Now it's Steve's turn to play with his food, rearranging them and watching steam fly up in curls and wisps. "Got a job," he says, frowning into his bowl. What can he say? _I'm Captain America and I'm going to beat up a bunch of goons from a secret Nazi organization that I thought I'd taken down a long time ago_?

"Ah," Tony smiles a bit, "What do you do?"

Steve shrugs, "I beat people up for a living."

Tony cracks up at that, and Steve doesn't have the heart to tell him that he's not joking. "If you didn't want to tell me, you didn't have to," Tony says, amused.

Steve smiles back wanly, "And where's the fun in that? Besides, for all you know, I could be telling the truth. Maybe I really am taking down a secret organization or something."

"Of course," Tony laughs, "And I'm an assassin sent to stop you."

"Are you?" Steve raises an eyebrow.

Tony rolls his eyes, "No. But I could be."

Steve shakes his head, amused, "You couldn't take me."

Tony pouts, "Maybe not with close combat, but I could poison your food or something."

Steve raises an eyebrow, "Have you?"

Tony wiggles his eyebrows, "You'll never know."

Steve shakes his head and takes another bite of his food, "I'll take my chances," he says.

Miraculously, the food is not poisoned.

Tony smiles at him.

* * *

They get their first hitch-hiker a few hours into their ride. Steve is telling Tony all sorts of stories about the war, excited and waving his hands around, and Tony laughs, _it's nice that you listened to your grandpa so nicely that you know these stories by heart_. Steve gives a nervous laugh and is quick to agree before moving on, Tony listening with unadulterated interest until Steve brings up a story with Howard and the Howling Commandos, being sure to change the pronoun when talking about himself, but Tony seems hesitant anyway as he listens.

Halfway through, Tony cuts in to ask, "Was your grandfather on the Howling Commandos?"

Steve's heart stops in his chest, pounding as he asks weakly, "How did you know?"

"My... my dad," Tony says quietly, "Howard Stark? He told me a story similar to this, where he was the civilian pilot."

"Oh, uh," Steve swallows, throat bobbing, "Yeah. Yeah. That's, uh, pretty cool that your dad knew him. It's like we're connected, before we've ever even known each other."

He catches Tony's frown in the rear view mirror, the way his lips tighten and his eyes darken even as Tony says with forced cheer, "Yeah. Pretty cool."

It falls flat, but Steve doesn't mention it.

Instead, he looks out the window, and smiles a bit, "Look, someone likes your driving?"

Tony laughs a bit, seeming relieved to have the change of subject, "What?" He asks, obviously bewildered by the sudden change of topic, "What makes you think that?"

"There's someone holding their thumb up, see?" Steve points, and then his mouth dries as the bus comes to a stop. "Oh. Wait. _No_. It's a _hitchhiker_."

"No kidding," Tony laughs as they pull to the side and he opens the doors.

A teenager in a grape purple tank and yoga pants with a galaxy pattern on them bounces into the bus, a quiver of arrows and a pastel purple backpack with a bulls-eye button pinned on the back.

"Yo," he waves a hand and bites back a yawn, "You're not going to, like, try and kill me or something, are you?"

"Depends," Tony cocks his head to the side and grins crookedly at the teenager, "You going to try and stab us with those arrows of yours?"

"I have more in my arsenal besides just my arrows," The teenager smiles at Tony, and Tony concedes with a dip of his head.

"Don't try to kill us or else I'll have to sic Steve on you," Tony jerks a thumb at Steve, "he can pack a mean punch. Otherwise, if you don't try to maim or otherwise injure us, we'll be chill."

"Awesomesauce," The hitchhiker sticks out his hand, "Call me Clint."

"Tony," Tony shakes Clint's hand.

"Steve," Steve calls from the back and waves a bit.

Clint waves at him, and Steve's eyes narrow when he shifts and Steve catches sight of the black and gold button on his backpack strap with the SHIELD symbol printed clearly on it.

"Nice to meetcha," Clint's grin doesn't drop, "So, what's Tony Stark doing with Captain America?"


	3. Chapter 3

Stark, of course, is the first to react, though the good old Captain seems quite tense.

Ah, it was a secret, then.

Stark laughs, light and yet loud, and Clint can tell that he thinks this is a joke. "Hear that, Steve?" Stark turns around to grin at the Captain, "Our hitchhiker thinks that you resemble dear old Captain America."

The Captain's eyes bore into Clint, harsh and dark and accusing and suspicious, and Clint is sure to keep his grin light and posture lax. "Funny," he says in a tight, cool voice, and Stark's eyes narrow beside Clint, like he can tell how tense the air is. From the reports, Clint wouldn't have guessed, but the reports are never quite perfect anyway and Clint has always preferred to make his own assumptions.

"Sore subject?" Clint cocks an eyebrow and tilts his head to the side, grin crooked and wide. The gap where his missing tooth used to be is dark in comparison to the white of the rest of his teeth. "Rather not dredge up old war stories for Stark to hear?"

He, of all people, ought to know not to bring up the past like this, but Clint has never been quite so kind.

The Captain's eyes are cold, though they turn a bit apologetic as he turns to Stark, "I thought this was supposed to be classified."

Clint shrugs, the straps of his backpacks bumping along the form of his shoulders. He turns to Stark, who is wearing a curious stare in the furrow of his brow, and when Stark catches him looking, he shoots him a flirty smile. "Breaking the rules in your secret club?" He asks, chiding but inquisitive.

"Something like that," Clint hums and tilts his head at the Captain, "He seems to want to be normal."

"I don't want to be trapped in the past," the Captain answers, jaw locked and eyes stuck on his hands. They are large, calloused, big enough to wrap around Clint's scrawny neck if he so desires.

"Then don't be," Stark's voice is deceptively light, "The past is in the past."

The Captain turns to look at Stark, though his gaze lingers on Clint's SHIELD badge ( _a nice little button all pressed up, Clint laughing as Coulson sighs and Fury scolds him but he doesn't burn it like they tell him to_ ). "I can talk to you about it if you want."

Stark's stare is measured, dark and cool in a way that the tabloids could never expect them to be. "Do _you_ want to talk about it?" He asks, calm, eyes narrowed.

The Captain stares at his hands again, seemingly unable to rip his eyes away, "The past is in the past," he repeats Stark's words, quietly, expecting Stark to just understand somehow.

Perhaps he does, because Stark just closes the doors of the bus and drums his fingers on the wheel. "Take a seat," he says soberly to Clint, as though realizing that the lightness of the ride before Clint came is gone, that the slouch of Clint's shoulders means nothing about how much he knows, and Clint complies, grin falling into a frown as he looks at the Captain.

Interesting.

He's different than the rumors described him to be.

He seems young, around Clint's age, face still a bit boyish despite his wide shoulders. Bright blue eyes that don't disguise his youth, and a stillness ( _stiffness_ , Clint's mind supplies, too accustomed to circus freaks who still in odd positions that they find to be comforting) that may be a nervous tick.

Clint takes it all in, and then, laughs, "Wow, this ride is tense. You got any Beyonce to lighten the mood?"

Stark's shoulders relax as the car moves forward, though his shoulder blades are still tight on his back. "At least we know that you have good taste in music," he laughs.

The Captain tilts his head to the side, seeming curious as he relaxes a bit, eyes on Stark instead of Clint (does he make him feel so safe? Stark and Captain America... what a curious match), "Who's Beyonce?"

"Ooh boy," Stark laughs, "Where have you been living?"

"Mid nineteen hundreds," The Captain sighs wistfully, "Not a lot of entertainment with a war."

The bus slows, moving to the side again, and once it's stopped, Stark takes out the keys and turns around, eyebrows furrowing, "What does that mean?" he demands.

The Captain's eyes flicker to Clint and back to Stark, "It's like he said," he gestures at Clint, face pained, "I'm Captain America."

* * *

They give Stark the rundown in an old grocery store, Stark pulling up to it before sighing, "If we're going to talk, we'd better do something productive," an oddly logical thought process running through his reasoning and actions.

Stark picks through different piles of fruits, having been gently steered away from the liquid meal supplements by the good ol' Captain (Clint laughed as Stark pouted at the Captain, protesting all the while).

The Captain's words are heavy as he talks about being raised in Brooklyn, lying to join a war that he had thought would kill him (it should have, it could have, but here is an eighteen year old before them, head bowed and shoulders raised as he murmurs, _I was saved by the serum, the ice should have killed me but it preserved me instead_ and Stark laughs, tense and forced, _like a fossil?_ ), the ice, talking wistfully of a girl only three years older than him with red lipstick who could beat anyone in a fight.

Stark is slow, still and methodical, and Clint can't quite decipher the expression on his face, angry and sad and accepting (reluctant, perhaps) all the same time.

"So you _were_ alive," is all that Stark says when Steve is done explaining. He laughs, loud and bitter and digs the heels of his hands and swears to himself, soft and harsh and low. " _One day_... he couldn't stay alive for one more fucking day to find his precious little..."

Stark shakes his head and laughs a bit, a little hysterically, and someone Clint thinks that it wasn't because he was just told that his companion was Captain America. Or it's something beyond simply that.

"Cool," Stark breathes harshly, chest going up and down in sharp, quick little movements. "So you're a fossil. Any other shocking news?"

Clint shrugs, "I'm going to, like, assassinate someone."

Stark stares at him, "Any _serious_ news?"

"I am completely serious!" Clint says, pulling an offended expression and pouting at Stark.

Stark smiles a bit at him, as though thankful for Clint diffusing any leftover tension (which, unfair, Clint is an assassin and he _totally_ looks it! ...okay, maybe the fact that he's sixteen and is missing a tooth... but _still_. Hmph). "Of course you are," he says, lightly, as though falling into banter.

Somehow, the air is calm again, and they all smile at each other.

"Sorry about not telling you earlier," the Captain repeats, a bit red.

"No, no," Stark waves his hand, and laughs awkwardly, "I mean, there's not exactly an easy way to say 'I'm a fossil from WWII but I haven't aged a day because I'm magical and immune to frostbite'."

"It's not magic, it's _science_ ," the Captain pouts.

Stark laughs at him, "Of course, of course," he smiles a bit sadly and repeats to himself, under his breath, " _One day_."

Clint exchanges glances with the Captain. That clearly wasn't meant to be heard, so they don't question it, but Clint files it in the back of his head.

"I don't know about you, but I'm feeling like watermelon," Stark's grin is back, wild and big and infectious. "Or maybe blueberry! What do you guys think?"

"I have money for both," Clint says, patting his pockets, and Stark makes a face at him.

"Nuh-uh, I'm rich, so I get to sponsor this trip."

"At least let us pitch in!" Clint protests.

"Don't bother," the Captain sighs, "He's immovable on this point."

Stark grins, proud of his stubbornness, and says, "Maybe both? I think both fruits is a good idea. You guys pick out what you want, too, yeah?"

"I want this entire store," Clint deadpans.

Stark sticks his tongue out at Clint, "Obie's in charge of the company, not me, so I can't just buy this franchise."

"Laaame," Clint puffs teasingly.

(Somewhere, in the back of his head, he distantly registers that if he _were_ in charge of the company, Stark might have bought an entire franchise because Clint made a _joke_ about it.)

"I'll take some pizza pockets, then," Clint nods to himself.

Stark blinks, "Pizza pockets?"

Clint's eyes widen, "You haven't had pizza pockets?"

The Captain looks over from where he's examining plums with a wistful smile, "What's a pizza pocket?" He asks, eyebrows furrowing.

Clint presses his hands against his temples, "Oh my _god_."

He buys five boxes of pizza pockets and they microwave them, Stark and the Captain laughing as Clint says _you haven't lived until you've eaten pizza pockets_ and both conceding that it tastes delicious, Clint grinning victoriously and the two of them smiling at him.

Clint is a deadly assassin, on a mission to kill someone.

(And maybe... just maybe, mind you... Clint has made two new friends who also like pizza pockets.)


	4. Chapter 4

"Do any of you know how to make the, uh, y'know," Clint gestures vaguely at the array of strings in front of them. Tony had stopped for a well-deserved ice cream break, Steve had spotted an art store nearby, and somehow it ended with the three of them standing in front of a shelf full of strings and threads, Clint making vague arm gestures that didn't really help to explain anything. "Bracelet thingies?"

"Bracelet thingies," Steve repeats, a bit amused, and Tony laughs a bit, because he's an jerk like that. "Very descriptive."

Clint sticks his tongue out at Steve, "Shut up. You know. Those... those thingies that girls like to put on their ankles."

"Really not helping your case here, buddy," Tony drawls, examining some yarn that claims to glow in the dark. He cups his hands around and looks at them with one eye, disappointed when the light is dim. He was expecting something neon and bright, but that was just weak. "Darn."

Clint looks amused at Tony's dilemma because he's mean like that, but still frustrated that he's not getting his idea across, "You know, like, those knotty thingies? With like, six strings, and..."

Clint makes precise little movements, as though he's trying to show them what he's thinking of, but Steve still looks blank and something niggles at the back of Tony's mind, the image of a girl with a bright smile right as she asks _you a traveler_ on the bus and Tony points _will you show me that_ before Jarvis finds him and takes him back home to a livid Howard.

"Oh, oh," Tony snaps his fingers, the uncomfortable memory sitting like stone in his gut even as he gestures excitedly,"You mean an, um, a, a chevron friendship bracelet!"

Now it's Clint's turn to give him a blank stare, and Steve looks a little amused as he asks, "How did you know that?"

"I, um," Tony turns red, "That's a story for another time."

Steve exchanges looks with Clint, amused and curious, but they don't push. Clint gives a vague finger motion, "Like, with the six strings..."

"...and the knotty thingies!" Tony agrees, bouncing a bit on his toes.

(He hopes that they're talking about the same thing, or else this would be awkward.)

"Like, they look like fishtail braids?" Tony says, "But they're tied onto each other? And they're, like, diagonal and can be in v shapes!"

"Exactly!" Clint beams, snapping his fingers. The barrier has been broken and communication has begun. " _Yes_! You can do those?"

Tony hesitates, "Yes?" He says.

Probably?

Maybe?

Sort of?

He settles on _yes_.

Steve still looks confused, but it's a fond sort of confusion, so he claps a hand on Tony's shoulder and smiles wide and says, "Mind showing me how to do it?"

"No problem!" Tony grins, wide and full and a bit excited. "From what I recall, it was really fun to make!"

"Sounds fantastic!" Steve's smile is wide and full of teeth and he looks like he'll start clapping or something.

"Okay, so we have to choose three colors each, right?" Clint asks, leaning over to peer at the threads, an excited edge to his grin.

"Yeah," Tony picks up a bright pink thread and grins sharply at it, "Knock yourselves out."

Steve looks them through and settles on white, dark purple, and a pastel pink. He thinks that they will make a fitting contrast against each other, and he gives Tony a wrinkled twenty dollar bill. "I know that you said you'd cover the road trip costs," He says quietly, "But this doesn't really count as a road trip cost, does it?"

Tony stares at the bill in his hand for a moment, dumbfounded, and then he laughs a bit and says, "Stevie, darling, I'm a millionaire."

Steve shrugs, the tips of his ears turning a bit pink as he mutters, a bit embarrassed, "That doesn't mean that your money will run on forever."

"Aw, Steve," Tony presses two hands to his chest, smiling fondly, "You didn't have to, but... That's very sweet. Thank you."

Steve beams, "No problem."

Clint watches them with a slight smile. He's grateful to them all, but he's a carnie kid through and through, and as such, he's not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Clint, though he can seem noble at times, thinks to himself that he's not about to let precious money slip through his fingers. "What colors did you guys go with?"

Steve holds up his, smiling a bit, "What do you think?"

"Looks fabulous," Clint grins widely, holding up his own, all different shades of purple, from a pastel, creamy purple to an eggplant purple. "I'm sticking with purple."

"What a surprise," Tony, who has long since become accustomed to Clint being obsessed with the color, drawls, a fond roll of his eyes accompanying his words.

Clint offers Tony a toothy grin, crooked but earnest, and asks, "What about you? Something flashy, I bet."

"You know me so well," Tony winks at Clint and holds up three of the primary colors. The yellow is eye searing, the shade of a dandelion's petals with the brightness of the sun. The red and the blue are equally bright, each strong and bold and Tony looks quite proud of himself.

It's just like Tony, to choose the most eye catching and eye searing colors. It's a talent, really, Clint thinks, and he laughs. "They look fantastic," He says. "I see you went with all primary colors?"

"What can I say?" Tony shrugs, "I like to keep it simple."

Steve looks amused as they make their way to cashier's, "Am I hearing this from the same man that tinkered with his phone in order to make it either accept or decline a call with a clap or two claps of his hands?"

"That's different," Tony huffs.

Steve shakes his head, smiling a bit, but doesn't argue.

When it comes to engineering, Tony is a different beast entirely. Though they haven't known him for long, this was something that Clint and Steve had quickly learned.

"So what made you think of doing a chevron bracelet, anyway?" Tony asked Clint curiously.

Clint shrugs, playing with the threads idly, "I knew someone who did them, a while back," he clears his throat, "So I was just reminded of them when we saw the string, s'all."

He doesn't say much else, and they don't pry. They know better, by now.

* * *

Clint is willing to tell them about her while they're on the bus that night, making the bracelets with patient, slow twists of their fingers.

She was a circus performer.

Only there for a short while... she wasn't one to stick around, but she stayed for a few months. Less than half a year, Clint remembers.

She wore all pink, walked around on her hands instead of feet and once took down armed robbers when they visited the grocery store. Kicking down the gun and wrapping herself around the body like a snake, picking up the gun and pointing it at the others with the cheerful threat that if they did not put the guns down, they would be in trouble.

Young Clint had thought that she was the coolest thing since sliced bread. He had been awed, she had smiled mysteriously when he asked how she had done that.

She wore these little anklets, woven and lovely, shades of pink and red and once, for Clint, purple.

She taught it to him, but he hadn't fully remembered. There was more to do, after all.

(She vanishes, a few weeks later, a bright pink chevron anklet on Clint's wrist that he didn't have when he had gone to sleep that night. The adults say nothing, and she would have slipped from his mind if not for the bracelet around his ankle.)

Clint tells the story lightly, focusing a bit more on how amazing she had seemed to him as a child, focuses more on how she was a performer through and through instead of how she had pulled three kids off him once. He leaves out details that would make Steve and Tony question him, leaves out little details like how he used to go to her when he didn't particularly want to deal with the mess that was the rest of his circus life.

When he finishes, it's with a flourish, loud and laughing and he bows a bit, too, for good measure.

Steve is thoughtful, and Tony grins (that odd little grin he gets whenever someone tells a personal story, something intrigued and fond and terribly kind. It makes you get attached to him terrifyingly fast, that way he acts like every word from your lips is gold).

"Should've figured you were in the circus," He says, teasing and light, leaning back with a crooked grin on his lips, "You're quite the performer."

(Clint thinks of SHIELD, of bared smiles and sweet words, of kissing girls before he shoots them between the eyes, _you're a good actor, for a sniper,_ and Clint snarks, _you can never be too careful in this line of work_.)

"I know," he smiles instead, sweetness and sugar and he isn't sure if it's true or not (he's tricked himself, a bit, perhaps), "I'm a dazzling star, always catching everyone's attention."

"You wish," Tony snorts.

Steve elbows him, and Tony laughs a bit at Steve, though nothing was said.

Some part of Clint yearns for that, though he knows that he's already part of it.

"What about you?" Clint asks Tony idly, "How'd you learn?"

Tony's shoulders are forcibly relaxed, his smile bright but his posture is _too_ relaxed, it's normally stiff and straight backed and the ease at which he holds himself isn't Tony anymore, it's Stark, the smile that tells the cameras he doesn't care and the set of his shoulders that is at east no matter where he is.

Steve can see it too, Clint knows, and Steve rips his eyes away, uncertain of how to look at Tony when he's like that.

 _Never mind_ is on Clint's tongue.

"Pretty girl in a bar," Tony says lightly, grinning white teethed and wide at Clint, "She taught me how to make it and then we made out. Nothing exciting, unfortunately," he laughs, a bit self deprecatingly, and that would set off alarm bells if the posture and smile hadn't already.

Tony isn't the type of person to say _nothing exciting_.

He'll embellish.

He'll exaggerate.

But he won't says something like _nothing exciting_. To someone like Tony, it's a waste of breath.

That's okay. Clint lied a bit, with his story, too (he would lie, but it's so much easier telling the truth, especially if nobody believes you).

The air isn't tense, hasn't got there yet, because Tony knows that they know that he's lying but he can't bring himself to care and they don't either, so when Clint laughs and makes a joke about bars and Tony, they laugh and the conversation spills into constellations and Greek myths and idle little things that don't matter to any of them.

And this? This is alright.

(Maybe even better than alright.)


	5. Chapter 5

Clint finds Steve on the roof of the bus that night.

They're parked on the side of the road, a spot isolated enough that they don't think anybody will call a tow truck on them as they stay the night.

Steve is lying on his back, fingers curled over his stomach, shirt raised ever so slightly and one knee bent, the other leg straight. When Clint gets closer, he notices that Steve's eyes are wide open, glassy and unfocused, but when they catch sight of Clint, they zero in on him. "Hey," Steve says quietly. The greeting is made from politeness, though Clint isn't sure if it's much more. Steve is silent, thoughtful.

"Looking for company?" Clint asks, crouching down. The bus groans beneath his feet and he fights down a smile. The old beater is well loved, and he knows that's why Tony must have bought it.

"If you're willing to give it," some of an older accent slips onto Steve's tongue, a heavy drawl that feels like molasses on his lips.

Clint is intrigued by it, by how old it is (how old _Steve_ is, though he's not even twenty, he's over fifty, and that messes with Clint's head). "Thinking?"

"Just a bit," Steve smiles a bit, wane and faded, and asks, "Tony?"

"He'll join us, soon," Clint guesses, "Just fixing up the engine. Said that it could use improvement or some shit like that."

Steve laughs, a breath of a thing, light as a feather. "Of course," the edge of his lips twitches up in amusement, "That's just like him. And you? Any reason that you've decided to come up here?"

"It was either stay here or listen to Tony tell me simultaneously tell me how the engine is a beautiful creature and how it's also a product of it's time and the most hideous thing that he's laid eyes on," Clint smirks at Steve, crooked and off center, "Somehow looking at stars with you seems the better option."

Steve hums a bit, sounding thoughtful, and then he says quietly, "I didn't get to look at the stars much back then. When I was younger, I mean," he rolls over a bit so that he's on his side, bending an arm under his head to cushion his ear. His gaze is fixed on the horizon though his body has turned to face Clint, gaze turning glossed over once again. "I was... I was sick a lot as a kid."

Clint knows.

 _Everyone_ knows.

It's in the history books, Captain America, a hero from the second world war, the ultimate inspiration story, the first _superhero_.

Sickly child to... well, Captain America.

He doesn't say this out loud, though, because Steve is talking and maybe this is something that needs to be said.

"Couldn't go outside when you were busy trying not to die," Steve murmurs, "And when, when I wasn't too sick, I had to work," his breath shutters a bit, "Bucky... my best friend... Bucky and I, we worked to get money. He wanted to get me medicine, all I wanted was to give him a good meal," his eyes close, "He always gave me his food. Said some crap about me being sick and needing to get better. Didn't help. I had a weak immune system and it just... sorry," his eyes open and he smiles at Clint a funny, awful little smile, "You don't need to hear about that. Then when I went to the war... well. That's an obvious one, isn't it? Can't look at stars when your camp could get bombed any second. You go to a place where you can see the stars and you're more likely to get spotted and shot than anything else."

Clint wouldn't know. He grew up free, in the wild. The circus lets you see the stars, the circus encouraged bare feet and loud laughter and sleeping in the grass or on top of the trailer because there was never quite enough inside and if you wanted to see the stars, everyone knew at least one story about the constellations.

Living like Steve, all cooped up inside, Clint thinks he wouldn't have lasted long. He'd have just withered away into a husk. Wouldn't have gained Steve's stubbornness or his kind need to help others.

"Doesn't matter," Steve turns onto his back and looks up at the sky, "I can see them now."

Clint waits a moment to see if Steve wants to say any more, and when he doesn't, Clint asks quietly, "How do they look?"

Steve's eyes are wide, fixed on the stars, unblinking, and he says, breathlessly, "They're beautiful."

Clint smiles a that, "I got to grow up with the stars over me, so," he looks up at them, "They're sorta familiar. Me, I grew up in the circus, so," he shrugs a bit, "The sky was our constant, you know?"

"One constant," Steve murmurs. His hands spasm a bit, and he nods, "Yeah. I know. I had a constant."

Clint glances at Steve curiously.

"My friend," Steve closes his eyes, "Bucky." A pained smile, "He's dead now."

Clint looks away. _James Buchanan Barnes, died in war. Fell off a train, body was never found_. What does he say to that? Clint clears his throat, "We can be your constant."

 _God, that's lame_.

Steve grins a bit at him, sad and still, "People aren't very good constants," he muses, "Aren't you a SHIELD agent? The chances of you living past thirty..."

"I know," Clint's voice comes out strangled and he fingers the bumps of the chevron bracelet that Tony had proudly presented to him earlier. (Clint had promptly given his to Steve, who in turn had already promised to give his to Tony as soon as he had finished.) "I will, though."

Steve regards him with a raised eyebrow, "How do you know that?"

"I _will_ ," Voice firm, eyes clear, Clint's always been a good liar. He doesn't bite his nails, Clint's trained out of those sorts of things, but if he were the type, he'd be biting his nails right now. He doesn't think of Fury's _this is your last chance,_ Coulson's _you don't have to_ even as the board whispers behind his back _maybe this will get rid of the upstart_ as they send him on a suicide mission to assassinate a target that's already taken out countless agents.

Steve smiles a bit, "Okay."

Maybe he believes him.

Maybe he doesn't.

Steve's seen a war, though, and Clint knows he isn't naive enough to let the loss break him if Clint _does_ happen to fail.

"Know any good stories about the constellations?" Steve changes the subject, eyes on the stars.

Clint ho's and hums, thoughts on the fire juggler's scratchy voice as he points out the stars and outlines, on the ringmaster's sharp smile as he says _have you heard of the story of Orion?_ and the circus members' trailer a din of noise as stories are exchanged through whispers and excited exclamations. "A few," he murmurs. "You?"

Steve shakes his head.

There's a slight clattering before Tony hops onto the roof of the car and Clint grins at him, "Hey, Tony, you know any good stories about the stars?"

Tony starts and fiddles with his bracelet, looking thoughtful, "I know a bit of a stupid one," he laughs, "Greek myth. All greek myths are pretty stupid, honestly."

Steve sits up a bit and tilts his head to the side, "Mind telling it to us?" he asks curiously.

"Sure," Tony clears his throat a bit, "It's about Andromeda. If you look up around..." he lays down next to Clint and points up, finger tracing a warped triangle shape. "You see that? That's Andromeda. That triangle that's like, bent in three?"

"I see it," Clint says quietly. He only vaguely remembers Andromeda, a faint tale that sits distantly in the back of his head, a tale that he barely remembers wisps of.

Tony waits for Steve to find it and give his own affirmation before he starts, "So there's this girl. Cassiopeia. Really pretty, not all that smart."

Tony's voice is rough with grease and charcoal, but it's soft, each word sounds like it's been neatly packaged and chosen, his words sort of halting in a way that's unlike him. Everyone has a storytelling voice, Clint thinks to himself, that's a bit different from their normal voice.

"So she goes around, saying she's the most beautiful creature in the universe. Even more beautiful than the gods." The edges of his lips quirk up, "You can guess how this goes."

"They were angry," Steve murmurs, sounding unhappy.

"Yeah," Tony nods, "So Poseidon gets really mad. He made sea nymphs, and he thinks they're way prettier. So instead of punishing Cassiopeia or something, he tells her that she has to offer up her daughter as a sacrifice." His voice gets a bit harsher, grating now, something angry that he tries to bite back, "He makes a great sea monster, Cetus, and Cassiopeia is stubborn, so she refuses. So Cetus is sent to destroy Andromeda, Cassiopeia's daughter, and Cassiopeia's going to get off scot free while her daughter suffers the consequences of her pride."

"That's dumb," Clint huffs.

"That's not the end," Tony laughs a bit, but he sounds like he agrees with Clint, "Coincidentally, Poseidon's son, Perseus, arrives at that moment after slaying Medusa. He sees Cetus attacking Andromeda, who's chained to a rock, and decides to save the beautiful girl. He uses Medusa's head to turn Cetus to stone and carries off Andromeda into the sunset, they marry, and that's it."

"That's it?" Steve squawks, "But what about Cassiopeia? Is Poseidon okay with this? Why did Perseus just randomly appear?"

Tony laughs, "It's a Greek myth. Like I said, it's a pretty dumb story."

Clint keeps his arms folded over his chest, "What's the moral?" He asks.

"The moral?" Tony chews on his lower lip and laughs a bit, "You pay for your parents' mistakes and so long as you've got a pretty face, you can fuck your way out of a bad situation."

" _Tony_!" Steve says, scandalized.

"What?" Tony demands, "it's _true_!"

"It's _not_..."

Clint frowns. "Dumb moral," he mumbles.

"Yeah, well," Tony scowls at Steve, "Doesn't have to sound all pretty for it to be true."

"It's not," Steve says.

Tony locks his jaw but doesn't argue, and Clint thinks that he would if it weren't for the fact that he knows it's a pointless endeavor. "Whatever. You got any stories with pretty morals about how if you're good, life will magically work out?"

"I'm not saying..."

"Guys," Clint cuts in, frowning at the two of them, "Fighting's not going to do us any good."

"You're right," Steve huffs.

"Sorry," Tony mumbles, chagrined, "I was wrong. There is no moral. The Greeks just had really stupid and pointless stories."

Steve laughs, "That's one way to put it."

The tension dissolves, and Clint is relieved. He steers the conversation away, "Where'd you learn the story?"

"Oh, that story," Tony hums in the back of his throat, "I, uh," he glances at Steve, "I don't remember."

Something Steve wouldn't approve of? Something like from a girl in a bar, then? Clint hums. It's not important. "Okay. Want to hear one of my stories? I can tell you about Wihtiko."

"Wihtiko?" Steve asks curiously.

"Yeah," Clint grins, sharp smile and white teeth, "Cree legend. One of the temporary clowns told me about it," he clears his throat, remembering nightmares and Barney laughing when Clint insists that he's not scared, despite being obviously so. (He'd give a lot to see Barney again, to have him laugh and say _Clint's a scaredy cat!_ ) "It's a monster that someone could turn into if they decided to become a cannibal. Wihtiko's were tall, gaunt, peeling pale skin and bones pushing so far that you could see them, bumping against their skin."

He brushes his fingers over Steve's arm, who shudders. "Didn't think you'd tell a ghost story," Steve says, shivering, "Not a fan of those."

"Tattered, bloody lips, eyes pushed deeply into the back of the skull, it looked like someone had taken a skeleton and tried to cover it with someone's skin, but it had gotten on wrong." Clint revels in the sharp intake that Steve gives, "It smells like death and gore, and any man can become it. It lies in the spirit world, awaiting a foolish man to enter so it can devour it's prey."

"Stop it," Steve mumbles, pushing at Clint, "I'm not good with ghost stories."

Tony laughs, "That's barely a ghost story. There are _humans_ that are scarier than that."

Clint's breath is stuck in his chest, uncertain of how to proceed, "True," he hears his voice laugh, "Honestly, _Steve_ could probably be scarier than the Wihtiko if he wanted to be."

"He could," Tony laughs, teasing, and Clint knows that's not the type of scary that Tony meant, but he's also meant scarier and he knows that Steve has, too, so he doesn't prod. "You should've seen him when we first met. Totally terrifying."

"What about you?" Steve nudges Clint, "You've seen anything scarier than the Wihtiko?"

"Oh yeah," Clint laughs, "My boss when he hasn't had coffee. Scariest thing ever."

Tony laughs, light and loud and Steve laughs, too. "You seen anything that scary, Steve?" Tony asks.

Clint almost expects something like _Hitler_ or _Red Skull_ or for Steve to fall silent, but Steve just laughs, "Peggy Carter, the woman who was in charge of my group for army training? Terrified the heck out of everyone. The most amazing woman I ever knew."

Clint smiles a bit at that, and Tony does, too.

"So," Tony says slowly, "Steve, you don't like ghost stories?"

"Oh, _god_ , Tony, don't you dare try and tell me them," Steve groans, "I punch in my sleep and I am _willing_ to punch you if you are the one who fuels my nightmares."

"What are you, seven?" Tony laughs.

"Oh shut up," Steve punches Tony lightly, reaching and straining across Clint to do so. "You're awful."

"Okay, okay," Tony huffs, "I don't want to get punched in my sleep, so I won't tell you any scary stories."

"Good," Steve is trying to be firm, but he sounds to relieved for that. "Should we be asleep?"

Clint hums in the back of his throat, "Probably. Hey, want to hear about another Cree monster?"

" _No_ ," Steve groans. "I hate both of you."

"We love you, too," Tony laughs.

Steve groans, and there's a pause before in unison, like something from a movie, the three of them laugh at the same time.

A while later (minutes or hours, Clint doesn't know, it feels like a moment and eternity), when they are all yawning and tired, Steve rolls off of the bus and just barely catches himself with one hand on the edge.

"Okay," Tony rubs his eyes and sits up, "I'm pretty sure that's our cue to go the fuck to sleep."

"Probably," Clint laughs, pressing a hand to his chest to try and calm his mini heart attack. "Let's get off the roof."

"Good idea," Steve groans from the side of the bus.

They make their way inside, Tony closes and locks the doors, and they fall asleep on rug covered bus seats, legs dangling off the edges and the space barely fitting Steve's broad shoulders, but it is comfortable and good and Clint wouldn't trade it for the world.


End file.
